i'm walking with the sun in my mouth
by blueasjazz
Summary: He wanted to believe that he lived to steal kisses from lords' daughters and joust in stolen, mismatched armor. — mage!Hawke/queen!Cousland.


**i'm walking with the sun in my mouth**

- cruelty makes its holes, destiny lingers on the warm and foolish. but destiny is a funny thing.

**fandom.** dragon age.  
**pairing. **mage-m!hawke/queen-f!cousland, sort of.  
**notes. **garrett, elissa, heavy doses of hero-worship and fairytale-fueled infatuation at first sight. also, teases of da3: i cannot take them. i _cannot_.

**. . .**

his mother used to sing.

she sang of gallant knights, maidens with flowers in their hair, courageous grey wardens and their griffon mounts; of sweet long summers that lasted decades and everlasting love that conquers all. But his mother never sang of betrayal, or of vengeance. she never sang of imminent wars of sword against sorcery, or of rituals that sought to bind and preserve an archdemon's soul.

his mother never sang of an apostate refugee (_champion_) and a warden queen (_hero_).

**. . .**

the hero of ferelden looked like she'd lived a thousand lifetimes; all of them full of grief and fury.

garrett thinks her eyes will haunt him to his deathbed.

**. . .**

he imagined their meeting a million and one times, as a small boy.

(this is how he would meet a queen -

he would battle a dragon, fiery and ferocious, with wingflaps that were the death of many good men and hoards of gold that could fund a thousand kingdoms. he'd have carver and bethany at his sides and the armies of thedas at his beckon and he would fell the beast with a blast of magic from the palms of his hands, the way his father taught him. he'd be victorious.

and she would not yet be queen then, or maybe she would; maybe she would be a lord's daughter he'd never seen before or tomas' pretty little sister from next door. maybe she would be a lovely dalish mage or a confident maiden of the seas. maybe a brave, scarlet guard-captain that fought and defended at his side. maybe she wouldn't even be a queen, or a lady at all, not really.

but she would reward him with a kiss and her hand in marriage as thedas cheered and cheered his name even as magic glows at his fingertips, and he knew that it didn't really matter, because she was his.)

**. . .**

this is how he would meet a queen.

she was the one to battle a dragon, a terrifying beast with hordes of darkspawn at its helm. there were no treasures except the lives of ferelden's people, be it human, elves or dwarves. the armies she had with her were forged from novel perseverance as well as ancient treaties, and she felled the archdemon with a swipe of a majestic sword. the price of her victory was a teryn's head on the landsmeet floor as the nation crowned a new king - a brave, golden fellow warden that fought and defended at her side.

she had seen blurs of a besieged home and deaths of many good men as she battled the blight, while the threads of fate led his life elsewhere further across the sea. she climbed the highest peaks of the frostback mountains and delved into the deepest recesses of lost dwarven thaigs, while he single-handedly protected an entire city from a qunari invasion, fighting a four-way battle - shouldering the freedom of mages and the honesty of the Templars against the extremity of the Grand Enchanter and the insanity of the Knight-Commander, unwittingly instigating a continent-wide war.

she was hailed a hero and crowned a queen, he was named a champion and succeeded a viscount in all but name.

but he knew it didn't really matter because she was not his.

**. . .**

news of further tangles and the unrest in orlais reached even the far shores of the free marches, and rode hard on the heels of denerim's royal messengers. they trickled to the people filtered and laden with maybe-lies, of doom and destruction and faith that would turn into ashes. a deceiver within the empress's court, a child with an old god's soul, a usually jovial dwarven spymaster-storyteller with his head hung in grief. kirkwall's champion distraught, ferelden's queen losing her mind. an army of inquisitors hot on the trail of truth, no matter the consequences and the cost.

dark times were approaching.

the time came, and they ran.

**. . .**

this is how he met the queen.

he'd been running for hours now, the trees and plants all looked the same he couldn't even figure out whose land he has stepped foot on, what city, what nation. his blood throbbed in his veins and before he knew it there was a blade at his throat and a blast of mana-fueled fire sparking dangerously in his palm, carefully aimed.

his eyes met hers, and something passed in the air - recognition, surprise, awe, fear. her star-forged blade dropped from the precarious perch above his jugular, and the flames in his hands were doused with a simple closing of his fists. her warhound prowled her tiny campsite before pressing a wet nose to his knee - a gesture of truce, his own mabari whined lowly in acceptance. she attempts an apologetic smile.

"I," she began. she did not finish. she didn't need to.

she was dressed not dissimilarly to him, darkened hoods and inconspicuous robes hiding well-crafted armor underneath, to her left lied a worn shield, painted with the heraldry of ferelden's north. caked in dirt and bits of blood, out on a self-imposed exile for reasons no one but herself could ever understand, her gaze held his and he sees the weight of thedas on her shoulders. he liked to think she saw the same in him. the tattered fingers of time stroke gently at their faces, their selves; hero, champion, warden, mage.

garrett, and elissa.

"May I share your fire, my lady?" he asked instead.

silence reigned as she struggled for an answer. he is suddenly assaulted by childhood memories and little-boy dreams, way back when he wanted to believe that he lived to steal kisses from lords' daughters and joust in stolen mismatched armor. she looked at him and her slow breath felt like more than what it is. but he is no prince, he is no king.

she smiles and says, "...By all means, ser." and he dimly thinks that here, now; she is not his.

but she could be.

**. . .**


End file.
